Just Another Day at Work
by Z10N33
Summary: Barney Stinson hid behind a mask, unsure of who he was, where he was going, and who he could trust. Barney-centric, will be a series of character studies and short stories, in various alternate universes and situations.


The Barney that the gang saw at the bar ceased to exist when he was working. His outrageous antics and uncontrolled, filthy language transformed into something else; he became more calm, analyzing, and collected. His words were smooth and polished. His manipulative nature, however, persisted. Just as Barney Stinson could beguile a woman into bed, he could wheedle the people of his trade into the vast and powerful web that was Goliath National Bank and, ultimately, AltruCell Corporation. He was a businessman of the shadiest sort, and was a master of his craft. There was a reason his motley bunch of friends knew so little about his work. Even Marshall, whom he had worked beside for some time, only had an inkling about Barney's true occupation before leaving the company.

Marshall knew only of the drinking water in Lisbon, the possibility of war with Portugal, and the fact that it seemed like Barney was unshaken by it all. The entire gang had some lurking suspicions. Some of them thought their womanizing companion was only so intensely tight-lipped about his occupation because it made him more mysterious, or that it was a game to him. But Marshall and Lily, in particular, felt there might be more to it. Lily never decided if Barney was kidding when he demanded she take the metal briefcase under his bed and chuck it in the East River in the event of his death.

Furthermore, the many times Marshall visited Barney in his office, the older man would hastily sweep papers under his keyboard or into a drawer, and, after uttering a few hurried, often not-English words into his phone, hang up. His role and even his standing in GNB were often unclear. Sometimes it seemed like Barney was the boss of the place, and yet he could still be ordered around by men not necessarily high on the corporal food chain. Then, on rare occasions, Marshall might catch a glimpse of him speaking with some men who were the bosses of his bosses' bosses' bosses, and the ground appeared equal.

Although they all drank copious amounts of alcohol and spent too much time at the bar together, they did not_ live_ at MacLaren's. And out of all of them, Barney spent the least time at their favorite pub. If this was because of the 23-minute cab drive, or the time he spent at the Lusty Leopard, or another bar he frequented, they were never sure. Sometimes he would skulk off when the night was just getting started, saying he needed to work. There were times he would stride in at an obscene hour, exhausted, and offer them his usual ridiculous spiel about his latest conquest. Sometimes they wouldn't see him for days – Marshall couldn't even spot him at the office – and he would return with the hands on his watch set to an odd time zone.

Overall, it was a confounding puzzle that was laced with suspiciousness. Nobody pried, partly out of a sensation of uneasiness about the whole ordeal, and also because they knew that their friend would never willingly confide in them.

But Barney was not invincible. Whatever work he did, it took a toll on him. And he dealt with this by unwinding with his pals, listening to their significantly more typical worries and feuds, and reveling in the awe – and disgust – he could implant in them with his gutsy ploys and raunchy conquests. The stone-faced Barney that discussed lord-knows-what with greedy businessmen from the homeland and overseas could, to an extent, be himself with his longtime friends. His childishness and naïveté could be revealed around them. His competitiveness could be voiced and expressed. He didn't need to be as sharp-minded, or anxious, or observant. He could get absolutely wasted, sleep around, be stupid, and laugh on those nights when he didn't need to attend meetings or fly to some strange land or discuss cargo and logistics.

He appreciated being Ted's wingman, he cherished smoking cigars with Robin, and he experienced fantastic drunken glee when he poked fun at the old married couple that was Lily and Marshall. And yet it seemed he was always the fifth wheel. In his work, he did not build true bonds or friendships. He built deals and destroyed countries, he shook hands with the mafia and ambassadors and princes alike. He flaunted a fake mask at someone just as two-faced as him. And when he saw his friends fall in love then break their hearts again and again, or contemplate having children or getting married, there was a longing that Barney tried desperately to stifle and deny.

Although he wasn't on the front lines of a battlefield, he_ was_ in a war of sorts. And there _was_ danger involved. And because of the secrets he knew, the dubious ways he attained money for his company and himself, and the people he consorted with, bringing a family into the equation didn't seem like an option. But, as he grew older, he also realized that being single at 83 was _not_ awesome. He found himself wanting a connection that didn't extend merely to the sort of connection that was made by human genitals. He wanted someone to know him through and through, a person he could confide in and feel safe with. This was something he never truly had. He questioned whether he ever _could_ have that. These thoughts would invade his mind when he was feeling low and insecure about his future. He tried his best to stop that train of thought and instead be awesomely carefree, but hell, that's not an easy task.

Barney Stinson had a façade of incredible confidence. Although he did have confidence, just like every other human being he doubted himself. There were times when his friends questioned his humanity. He brushed it off, took it all in stride. But, in truth, when he was polishing off another bottle of scotch, explaining in graphic detail his sexual escapades to his somewhat willing, somewhat reluctant friends, and trying desperately to ignore the aching loneliness in his chest and the guilty gnawing in his gut (_it was constant now, how could he do this, why did he do this, how could he ever stop?_) he _did_ question whether he actually was human.

Because although Barney had been accused of being a sociopath countless – _he didn't count, he didn't keep track, what a preposterous thought _– times, he wasn't. His moral compass was questionable and probably very defective, at best. But he was capable of some guilt, at least. Maybe not always over his womanizing schemes, but certainly over his work. When he started off in AltruCell, he wasn't entirely sure what he had just gotten into. He had abandoned his dreams of joining the Peace Corps and replaced those with suits and a desire of power. He started off doing more menial work, but gradually he was exposed to something much more sinister. As his job transformed, he did too. And after time wore away his initial horror, he eventually had no qualms with the amoral occupation he was so, so skilled at.

But on this Tuesday evening – for every evening of the last week – the guilt had crept up on him, pounced on him, and then, even after guzzling enough alcohol to give him a sizeable hangover, it smothered him.

Barney wearily strode into MacLaren's pub. The gang had already settled into their usual booth. A scotch was waiting for him on the table, and he downed it before greeting the others, and then sat heavily in his seat. It seemed baby names were the topic of the hour, and his mind drifted from the conversation. He was finishing his second scotch and eyeing the blonde in the corner when he snapped back to attention, his name having been brought up.

"But seriously, Barnabus is a weird name. No offense, Barney, but I don't know what your mom was thinking." Robin had her elbows on the table and was nursing a beer in her hands.

It took him a moment to register the comment. In truth, he was exhausted, and he didn't even feel enough energy to go after a girl tonight. His brain was content with soaking in the alcohol and doing nothing more. But he shook himself free from his fatigued stupor, and retorted, "Are you kidding? Barnabus is an _awesome_ name. It's different. Unlike 'Lily', for instance."

This garnered a snort from Lily. "Please, at least I'm not named after a purple dinosaur." From there the good-natured bickering continued, until the entire table was involved. But after a beer – or was it two, or three? – Barney didn't quite feel like putting any more effort into the conversation. He needed to get up bright and early for an extremely important meeting before he got to return to his office at GNB. His work schedule was wildly inconsistent – some work he could pass on to his underlings, some he did himself, and sometimes there was nothing to do but shop from Sky Mall's catalogue and pull pranks on his co-workers. But he was busy lately, busier than usual, considering his recent mishap, and was strongly considering turning in for the night.

He was about to open his mouth to say so, but Marshall spoke over him, "Barney, you okay? You look tired." In many ways, Marshall was like the papa (or maybe mama) bear of the group. His concerned gaze surveyed Barney's features. He picked up on the paleness of his friend's face, the dark rims around his eyes, and the way his shoulders slumped and his eyelids drooped.

"Hm?" Barney sat a little straighter in his wooden seat as all of the eyes at the table blinked at him. "Yeah, I'm great! Although I admit," he leaned in slightly, as if revealing a great secret, "I'm a bit worn out from a few hours ago. I think I'll be sore for a week!" The body language of the entire group changed from mildly curious and worried to exasperated and somewhat repulsed. And after an improvised but sufficiently convincing tale, nobody pried when he told them he'd leave for the night.

Barney was the one constant in all of their lives. He was always the womanizer, the crafter of wild stories and legendary nights, the one who was manipulative and conniving but protective and loyal all at the same time. He never changed. At least, they didn't really notice, or they didn't want to. He wasn't about to alter that perception and mindset, either. He hated vulnerability, despite how much he _wanted_ to be vulnerable around someone. Frankly, Barney Stinson was a mess of emotion and several serious issues and addictions, and it was all difficult to comprehend, and even more challenging for him to spill his guts to someone. So he stuck with what was familiar. And with that in mind, he waved goodbye, paid his bill, hopped in a taxi and started the journey to his Fortress of Barnitude. He ignored the chunk of him that was nearly panicking over earlier that week, the piece that was screaming over his mistake, the part that wanted to be cradled like a child, and the one that wanted to end it all. He trudged into his cool, dark and silent apartment. He set his alarm, tore off his suit – he didn't even hang it, but instead allowed his clothes to wrinkle on the cold floor – and collapsed on his bed.

Barney descended into his confusing, blurry and frightening dreams the moment his head hit the pillow. Images of explosions and shrieking children and missiles and furious men in black suits filled his mind.

He would get through it. Just another day at work, right?

* * *

Thank you for reading. I am not a particularly experienced writer, and I am especially new to the How I Met Your Mother fandom. However, I enjoyed writing this piece on a whim and have several ideas. The following chapters may or may not be connected to this and the little situation Barney has got himself into at his work.  
Next chapter I think will focus on Barney's bus accident. Some chapters may have a lighter, more humorous tone as well. Also, there will be some bending of canon. Don't worry though, I have watched every single episode of the series. Repeatedly. Anyway.

Hopefully I'm not wildly out of character here. I'm working on it.

Thank you very much again for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. Please review if you have a moment. I wish you a great day!

Oh, by the way, I do not own How I Met Your Mother or the characters, however surprising that may be. Although I'm sure the owners of all of these wonderful creations write on _fanf_ _constantly._


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